The Quiet Language of White
by yep still me but gone
Summary: My FAGE 8 Entry: This is a tale about paranoia and denial, about guilt and sacrifice, about fault and redemption. Jasper is a former mobster, and Carlisle is his security guard.


**FAGE 8: Soul Mates**

 **Title:** The Quiet Language of White

 **Written for:** Cullen Cousin

 **Written By:** Dorchester

 **Rating:** M for adult themes, references to some violence, and coarse language.

 **Prompt used:** Ties to the Mafia…

 **Summary:** _This is a tale about paranoia and denial, about guilt and sacrifice, about fault and redemption. Jasper is a former mobster, and Carlisle is his security guard. Carlisle is more than that: he's Jasper's closest friend and is also in charge of Jasper's medications._

 **Thanks to** Loopylou992 and Alice's White Rabbit for their help. I seriously love these ladies, and their red pens. 

If you would like to see all the stories that are a part of this exchange visit the facebook group: Fanficaholics Anon: Where Obsession Never Sleeps, or add the C2 to get all the stories direct to your inbox.

 **The Quiet Language of White**

"Wait, wait, wait!"

His fingers leave four dents in my gabardine suit jacket. I halt in place while his black leather-clad shoulders occupy my field of vision. I stand still like a good boy; he walks out of my ochre-painted, one-story house, steps on the gravel path, and turns his head as if in slow motion to the left, then to the right. That's his job. He has to see everything. He has to know everything in my surroundings. And he's great at doing it. All in all, Carlisle is great. Period.

What had possessed me to try and go out alone, not waiting for him to scout the terrain before me, not waiting for his comforting reassurance that no one is trying to kill me today? It must have been a fit of insanity, which I'm not allowed.

There's a cypress in a pot next to the path. A cat appears behind it, he kicks it with a lazy arc of his right foot, his dress shoe glistening in the sunlight. The cat strolls away with a desperate meow. Carlisle would get rid of a possible attacker, were it a man instead of the cat, with the same ease. He's the person who will protect me against all the threats of my world.

If you had asked me, say, ten years ago, what was a man kicking cats worth, I would have said they were a lowlife, someone I'd despise. Ask me today, I'll tell you there's no such thing as too much cruelty. If you have to kick a cat, you kick a cat. If you have to beat the shit out of someone, you do it.

Also, I'll gladly tell you, there's no such thing as paranoia. Your worst fears can come true at any moment. Any moment, like, right now. That's why I need security.

He drops to one knee and looks for a bomb beneath my car.

"Okay, clear," he says and holds the Mercedes' passenger door open for me. Only now, I know I can approach my car without fear and, after he's made sure we're not going to explode, we may depart.

"Move, Carlisle!" I urge him once we're seated. "We're going to be late." His stupid, well-worn leather jacket makes a small creaking noise when he turns his body to look my way and grant me one of his sad smiles.

"Calm down, Jasper. They won't start without us. You shouldn't look so worried."

How, pray tell, can I not look worried? I'm always worried. Sometimes panicking about this and that. Waiting for things to go all wrong.

Because, here's the deal—the most important thing I need to tell you—there's no such thing as a former mobster. And yet, that's what I'm trying to be: a former mobster, clean, absolved of my _late_ father's business. Now I'm paying the price for my decision; the price being a life in constant fear.

At the age of twenty-eight, I spend my days under a fake name, in the godforsaken insignificant town of Forks, Clallam County, Washington. Here I am waiting for _them_ to find me.

"Stop brooding, Jasper," he mumbles, eyes on the road. "We're fine."

It's not a long ride until we reach our goal on the outskirts of town. It's a large mansion off a hidden roadway, a place where I feel relatively safe. It's where the Cullens live; the only people who are somewhat close to me, and they're Carlisle's family.

Carlisle's wife passed away long ago. We don't talk much about her. Still, we're going to attend quite a large gathering. Esme is his sister, a loving, good-natured creature who looks at her brother with adoration and the deepest of trust. She's in her early forties, two or three years younger than Carlisle. His children are Edward and Rosalie, both models, who live in Alaska and Seattle, respectively, but visit very often and practically live in the mansion half the time. Rosalie is engaged to her high school crush, Emmett, who will be here too at this time of year, and so will one of her colleagues from the fashion industry, Alice Brandon. Alice is secretly in love with Edward; we all know it, though, and we all pity her. He pretends not to notice. He has invited someone new to dinner today—a girl from Forks named Bella, whom I have yet to meet. I don't trust this new person in our small circle. A newcomer is a possible threat and I say so to Carlisle.

"You'll be okay, Jasper. She's just a local girl." He tries to comfort me, but there's nothing comforting about it. I've seen a teenage girl draw a gun in the blink of an eye and shoot two people in cold blood. "I told you she's a policeman's daughter," he goes on, rolling his eyes.

"So what? Carlisle, ever heard of corrupted officers?"

"Just stop it. She's fine. You'll be fine."

Once inside the mansion, I hurry to the first bathroom in sight. Carlisle knows I need him to take a good look around before I emerge in the dining room. While he goes on his usual round trip, which I know is only performed to soothe my nerve, I lever myself against the huge mirror and take several calming breaths. The eyes that stare at me from the mirror are dark, irises nearly as black as the pupils. My hair has grown too long; I notice some strands falling inordinately across my forehead. Blond roots are showing; I realize I've become dangerously negligent. The dark hair dye would be the last thing to save my life, though, had _they_ found me.

A soft knock on the door signals he's back. Three knocks faster, two slower. Carlisle is telling me the house is clear.

I step out and there stand Carlisle and Alice. He looks perfect, as usual. Her spiky hair is funny, and she's dressed strangely, lace and tricot, ballerinas and lots of jewelry. She eyes me mischievously, and Carlisle smirks. The smooth bastard disappears toward the kitchen and leaves me with her.

"There you are, Jasper!" her voice chimes. "Be my companion for tonight, will you?" She tries to look innocent and seductive all at once—fluttering eyelashes, pouting pink-colored lips and all that shit. Has no one told her I'm the wrong kind of guy, even for a replacement? She hangs awkwardly on my arm and tells me everyone's in the kitchen, greeting the new girl. "Edward is an idiot," she says. "Bella is boring, ordinary and unattractive. And horribly dressed. I can't imagine what he finds attractive in her."

"I don't like her already," I admit to Alice.

My companion joins the others with a theatrical bounce while I try to appear subtle as always. I still don't trust the new girl, and it shows, obviously, because everyone raises an eyebrow at me with my shallow "nice to meet you." Well, except Carlisle, which is understandable. He _knows_ me. Right now, I feel like I have swallowed a very bitter pill and everyone wants to tell me it's for my own good, but I don't believe them—as if the pill is stuck in my throat and no words or scolding faces can make it taste better.

For his own reasons, Edward hurries to take Bella away. Thank God. I can eat normally now, the fight with the lump in my throat is not that horrible once she's out of my sight. It's rare that I dislike someone so strongly, but Bella, I really don't trust.

"You always overreact when you meet someone new," Carlisle tells me later while he drives me back to my home. Maybe he's right. And maybe he isn't. What if she's with _them_? Has he got any proof she's an all right person? "Oh, come on. Do you have any proof against it, Jasper?" he scolds. "My son has the right to have his own likings."

I stop thinking about Bella once I'm in my house. Carlisle pulls the blinds halfway down, checks the alarm, and goes around the house one last time.

"Okay, time for bed," he announces. "Goodnight, Jasper." He'll go to his room, which is next to mine.

My "goodnight" is barely heard. I'm drained from the effort to stay calm. A quick shower, then I get undressed and slide under the duvet. Images and words from the day spiral under my closed eyelids. They won't let me sleep even though I'm exhausted. Faces and voices are shouting _danger_ in my face; they scream _disaster_ , and _punishment_ , and _death_ , and I jump in my bed to reach for the nightstand where my bottle of pills are. I swallow two, quickly, and lie back down.

Now there are no images from the day projected in my mind—it's all white and calm; the words in my head are so different, whispers of _serenity_ , _refuge_ , and _protection_.

The quiet language of white is what I call these words. There's _death_ among them, too, but it's peaceful and overshadowed by _satisfaction_.

The solid white gives way to marvelous colors and shapes right after I drift into sleep. A floating, blurred face, shoulders and arms, tendons and muscle. Two nuances of bare skin reflecting the dim light from a nightlamp. Two shafts flushed, held in a palm. A man's palm with long, pale fingers.

Molecules of fragrance invading the close proximity. Dark wood and musk.

A kiss. _Love_.

"Rise and shine!" Carlisle singsongs next to my ear, as if the morning is only a moment away from my restless evening. That's a good way to wake up, so I smile. I wish he would bend down and kiss me, but he won't.

"Have I told you lately that you're beautiful, Carlisle?" I tease him. He's good-hearted, and he's never offended by mentions of my attraction to him. But I can't help it, and there isn't a better word for the way he looks this morning, really. He _is_ beautiful.

"Shut up," he cuts me off, although one of his sad smiles renders his irises sparkly and golden.

I love the days when it doesn't rain. Those are rare and meticulously used for outdoor activities. I decide we're going hunting today. I love my guns, too, and I like shooting at things, as long as they are not people.

And Carlisle, he has to keep himself in good shape. He's a former marine, a skilled shooter and a trained fighter. That's what I pay him for: to be my guard and to be braver than I am. He's the one with the common sense, too.

For two hours in the mountains, we haven't seen a living soul, except for the birds. I've tried a shot or two at them, all unsuccessful. Carlisle empties his shotgun against a rotten trunk creating a huge hole in it.

"Do you think that Bella person is really all right?" I ask him for the hundredth time. Unlike last night, I can't stop thinking about her. I can't stop blaming Carlisle for letting her into his house. I'm convinced she's the enemy; she wants my death. Then I see it— _shit, shit, shit, this is so unfair!_ — _Carlisle wants my death too!_

He looks annoyed, refilling his shotgun with lazy movements. I choose this moment to shoot him in the leg. He screams. The shotgun falls from his hands. I jump him and reach for the Glock, which I know is tucked in his belt. As soon as I grab the pistol, I throw it to the side, far away, so neither of us can use it. Carlisle falls into the carpet of leaves; I straddle him and press his shoulders to the ground. He gives up fighting pretty soon—he has lost a lot of blood already. His training has taught him to save energy in situations like this.

I'm just about to be sick.

"You fucking idiot!" He still finds the will to snarl at me. "Why would you do this?"

"Because you're a liar, Carlisle." I push at his shoulders with all my might. "Why did you lie to me?" I start crying in earnest, teardrops falling on his smoothly shaven cheeks. I release his shoulders and grab handfuls of his fucking perfect hair. I know he's brilliant, and he knows exactly why I did this. It's because I'm doubting everyone, including him, _especially_ him, since he has betrayed me once already when he rejected my yearning for him. I also know he's really well-trained and will knock me out any moment now.

So he does.

I don't know how much later I am back to the world, dizzy and disoriented. His strong arms carry my weightless body as if I'm a bunch of chaff, all grain separated. All _brain_ separated. He limps all the way to the Jeep and throws me in the backseat.

"Shut up," he cuts me off before I even open my mouth to speak. I watch him fuss with the emergency first aid kit, and then he's behind the wheel, driving me home.

I burst into a second fit of sobs when we're approaching my house; a few more turns and we will be seeing it.

"I didn't mean it!" I cry out, suffocated.

"I know." His voice is weak. "I know."

He waits for me to stop sobbing before he leaves the driver's seat and goes around the car to open the door for me.

"Get out," he orders. I'm too weak to argue.

We support each other inside the house, to the kitchen, because his limping is getting worse and my head is spinning. I let him sit on the first chair we reach.

"Find me a lighter," he orders again. The lighter is right where it should be, over the gas stove; I'm quick to pass it on. "Now a knife and some alcohol." I give him what he needs, and next I close my eyes. Clothes shuffle, I hear the click and hiss of the lighter, then a succession of two muffled cries, which tear the silence of my ochre-painted one-story house. I hope my neighbors aren't home.

When I open my eyes, a bloodied bullet is discarded on the table. Carlisle is in his underwear, using a new bandage, which he probably took from the car kit earlier.

"Let me at least suck you off? Please?" I can't help it. He's all god-like there, both the martyr and the war hero; I so wish he could be mine.

"No," he says. "Never again." He bites his lip during the last ministration over his thigh. He always bites his lip when he ties a knot.

"So, I guess you didn't let the enemy into my safe haven."

"You know I didn't. Bella is all right."

"Yeah, I know," I admit through a sigh. "Please, forgive me. You'll be okay, right?"

He ends the conversation abruptly, by standing up and limping out of the kitchen. "Right. I need a nap. Go have some sleep yourself; you look like you need it."

Yes. I need my white. I need to hear its quiet language again. I don't even think about going to bed without the pills.

 _Serenity, refuge, protection._ _White_.

 _Satisfaction, death._ _White_.

 _A lustful glimpse, a touch of skin, tongues. Dark wood and musk. Penetration._

 _Sleep._

I wake up on my own, no voice in my ear to encourage me out of bed. I stand up, anyway, and wander through the house to find him. He's nowhere to be seen. Exactly on time, when I begin to panic, I hear the Mercedes' engine outside the window. Pretty soon, he appears from the hallway.

"How are you doing?" He's all smiles and politeness, and I sense something is very wrong.

"Where were you? Was I all alone?" I can't control the rising panic in my voice. I hear the hysteria, and there's nothing I can do about it.

"No, no, no, don't start." He fixates me with his golden eyes. "I went to collect my Glock while there was still sunlight. See?" He points out the window, at the sunset. I might have found the sunset beautiful were I not so worried. I'd been left alone while I slept. This is horrible.

"To the mountain and back? You went all the way there and back while I slept?" I ask, unbelieving.

"Did you want me to call Edward, or Emmett, to go fucking fetch it? Why did you throw it in the first place?" Now he's attacking me, the sleek son of a bitch. Oh, never mind. At least, he's here now. "I also went to the graveyard."

The shock is similar to a heavy blow into my chest, extracting the last breath out of my lungs. "Your wife." A hiss is pointed at him with the air leaving my lips. His dead wife. The woman he's still faithful to.

He clicks his tongue in a nearly inaudible "Tsk," and his hand flies to massage his neck. "I knew you wouldn't like that." Judging by his facial expression, he's not too worried about my reaction. But the hysteria is present, unrolling, spitting acid into my stomach, blinding me with rage and want, with this maddening feeling that I don't own anything, that I'm a nobody, a worthless bag of shit.

"Why don't you just go fuck yourself!" I feel like screaming, so I scream. "Leave my house!"

"I won't because you pay me to protect you," he states in a voice much calmer than mine although a bit harsher than his usual tone. I don't think he's going to last long before he does something, like hit me, or shoot me in the leg, as I did him.

I focus on my hatred and my worthlessness, which now collect in my rolled fist. The TV set is the nearest object within my reach. I punch it, hard, and it flies to the floor. Its electrical life is over with a little spark and a puff of smoke. I wish my pathetic parasitic life were over too, and soon.

"Carlisle, kiss me again. Please," I beg him. My body is shaking. He and I, we've made love, for fuck's sake. I'm not a nobody to him!

"No, Jasper. It was once, it was a long time ago, and it was a mistake. I'll be in my office."

Or maybe I _am_ a nobody to him. This sucks.

When night falls, I'm still desperate.

There's not a single pill in my bottle; I'd taken the last two earlier. He has my supplies locked in his office; I can't go and beg him for more now. Not right now. I think he hates me. I prepare for a restless night, for endless tossing and turning in my bed, sweating, cursing, and craving for the morning to come.

Somewhere within the next hour come the gunshots. I recognize the Glock. Then a foreign gunfire. The Glock, once more. Then, silence, and more, chilling silence.

With leaden limbs, I crawl out of my bed. My forehead is covered in sweat. My hands grab at the empty air in search of the light switch. Why isn't he coming to help me in the dark? Why. Isn't. He …

My knees give up, and I'm lying on the floor in complete darkness. If for a minute, or for half my lifetime, I can't say. At a certain point, I decide I can reach farther. I crawl. I'm terrified. Then I stand, and I manage to walk. I'm nearly dead panicked, but I need to find out what happened.

The lights are on in the hallway, and his body is actually very close, a few steps away from my door. He's not dead. He's been shot, sprawled on the floor, a huge bloodstain on the front of his shirt; but he's not dead because he's moving his hand toward me. It's not his right hand which holds the Glock, it's the left one, within it a bottle of my pills. "I was just coming to bring you these." I barely hear his voice. "Thought you'd need them."

"Hush, Carlisle," I try to silence him, still terrified and at a total loss what to do next. There's another body, definitely dead, and I'm sure two Glock bullets can be found nestled inside it. So, _they_ 'd found me. That's it. My stay here is coming to an end.

"You think the pills are unimportant," he smiles. This is not one of his sad smiles; this is a genuine smile, a sign of utter amusement. "You never guessed why I gave them to you, did you?"

Oh, my God, there's a red bubble on the corner of his lip. I know what it means.

"Don't speak, Carlisle."

So, 911 then. I'd probably have to join some federal program after the squads show up. I can't believe how really insignificant this is right now. How important it was to avoid such a turn of events, say, a year ago.

His life is all that matters now.

I say my address into the speaker. Sooner, rather than later, they will be here—the ambulance, the police, maybe the feds—but who cares. We have some more time, though, 'cause we're at the fucking end of geography.

I stroke his face. His eyes are closed. He breathes heavily and more red bubbles form a shiny, ugly chain over his lower lip.

"Try to guess," he suddenly talks, and his eyes blink in my direction. I gulp my scold back, perhaps what he has to say is vital. "Try to guess why I always told you to take two of those when only one would do for a night." A rumble comes from his chest. He closes his eyes again, and his mind drifts away. I close my eyes, too, and remember.

The white. The quiet language. And then, the moving forms. The touches, the reflections. The love.

I lean down and kiss his bloodied lips. His fragrance envelops me.

Dark wood and musk. Dark wood and musk, which invaded my nostrils _every fucking night_!

 _Shit_.

I open the door for the paramedics. The feds follow straight after, and two of them grab my forearms and take me outside into the night.

I tell them everything they need to know. Everything from my past and my present. Soon, I will not be Jasper Whitlock any more. But then, I realize, who the hell is going to miss a Jasper Whitlock in their life? No one. Not even Carlisle. I've only been his toy.

Two days later, I'm allowed to see him in a sterile hospital room. He's lying peacefully under pristine white sheets—my war-hero and my martyr. His eyes are nailing mine. "Hi," he says without a preamble. "Hire me again. Wherever you're going."

"Got a new bottle of pills then?" I'm an idiot. I'm smiling and my cheeks hurt.

"You won't need any," he's smiling too, his irises sparkly and golden. "I promise."

"Good," I manage, somehow. Maybe I will be able to fall asleep without the medication—if I close my eyes while he holds me in his embrace, and if I know I'll wake up next to him. Maybe I won't have the need to hear the quiet language of white again.

"Yeah, that's really good," I say and kiss his dry lips.

THE END


End file.
